


Fire Prevention

by queerical (Imaginary_Bomb)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Implied Murder, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28065735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imaginary_Bomb/pseuds/queerical
Summary: She doesn’t think she might be in over her head until she’s crumpled over the toilet, heaving up lunch. Even then, it’s a momentary thought. When the regurgitation subsides, she flushes the toilet, washes her face, brushes her teeth. As she steps back into the kitchen, her father’s mantra rings in her head: “When shit happens, shit’s gotta get done.”





	Fire Prevention

She doesn’t think she might be in over her head until she’s crumpled over the toilet, heaving up lunch. Even then, it’s a momentary thought. When the regurgitation subsides, she flushes the toilet, washes her face, brushes her teeth. As she steps back into the kitchen, her father’s mantra rings in her head: “When shit happens, shit’s gotta get done.”

Looking down at the mess on her floor, she thinks truer words were never spoken.

Which is why she put down the tarp. Thankfully, the splatter all seems to have been contained, except for what landed on her hands and face—now washed—and her smock—already well-stained with gore from the buck hanging from the dressing tree out back.

She wraps the canvas around his prone form and drags him by his scuffed Thorogoods out to his truck. He’s a big boy, but she’s not worked thirty years for the local logging company for nothing. She hefts him onto the bed with no trouble.

Back inside, she washes the knife left in the sink. She dons his heavy fleece overcoat and Fish & Game cap he left on the coat rack. With her hair tucked up, her driver’s shadow fits his profile well enough. The keys to the truck are in his jacket pocket; she laces up her boots and hitches herself up into the cab. The floor is littered with half-crumpled cans of Natty Light.

It’s twenty minutes until she reaches the smattering of buildings they call a town. She keeps an eye out but doesn’t ease pressure on the gas; a more cautious pace would only draw suspicions. She passes The Grub Hub, the burger joint he went to every day without tipping; The Elk House, for when he had cash for decent lager; finally, the old church, where he gave confession every Sunday like his Momma taught him.

Assholes are a dime a dozen these days, but they’re especially potent in small towns. Too many people enjoying the show; plenty of decent folk unwilling to point fingers; that handful who claim they’re just glad they don’t have serial killers like in the city. The sheriffs are always useless, and the pastor, for all his saving of souls, has no power over Jack Daniels.

But that’s alright. She can take care of shit just fine.

Another twenty minutes, and she reaches his trailer. She parks on a slant, letting the truck skid enough to shatter the other headlight against a tree. She leaves the keys in the ignition, the driver’s door open, and goes around to the bed. He hasn’t rolled too much, and if there were any leaks, the bed is so covered with shit, she can’t tell.

She hoists him over a shoulder and trudges to the compost pile ‘round back. Burning was a favorite pastime, so it’s well stacked. She unwraps his body, dumps him onto the pile, then stuffs the canvas deep into the blend of brush and garbage. She jimmies the lock on the shed; inside are several cartons of gasoline, as expected. She grabs the three most full.

When the pile is suitably doused, she tucks her gloves into the waist of her jeans and takes the matches from her breast pocket. The _sshhkk_ of the match against the red strip is intensely satisfying. She drops it onto the pile and steps back as it bursts to life.

She gets the back door open with a hand through the already broken window and goes straight for the fridge. Behind a half-eaten pheasant carcass is a six pack of Sierra Nevada. Must’ve been waiting for a special occasion, she reckons.

She figures this is special enough and liberates it. With a folding chair from the kitchen table, she sets up before the blaze. It’s really going now, and the smell is not exactly pleasant, but not bad enough to ruin the mood. The _hiss-crack_ of the can is even more satisfying than the match. She doesn’t imbibe often, and it goes down cold and smooth.

She watches the conflagration roar and feast. Four hours till dusk, then the towns-folk will notice and send out the fire crew. Old town law—no burning after nightfall. It rained the previous morning, but she’ll stay a bit, make sure it’s contained.

Fire has that way, needing coaxing and tricking to be useful, ready to turn on you at any moment. Nothing quite like a bite from that orange devil, pain so intense, feels like you’re being eaten alive. It’s a damn shame, people will say. Terrible way to go. But you have to be careful handling that much flame. Accidents are prone to happen—especially when you’re shitfaced.

She crumples the Sierra Nevada can and tosses it to the edge of the bonfire, with a hollow clatter against a smoldering boot. She picks up the next one and knocks it back.


End file.
